I thought it would never let go.
The weight pressed into my bones,
nights stretched so long,
that I forgot the sound
of my own lightness.

But it didn’t stay
in the way I feared.
It loosened slowly,
a thread here,
a knot there,
until one quiet morning
I realized I could breathe
without bracing.

I remember the blur,
the endless running together,
the feeling of being
nowhere at all.
Now, there is shape again.
Not perfect.
Not whole.
But mine.

The colors that came back
weren’t the ones I remembered.
They were softer,
frayed at the edges,
but real enough to hold in my hands.

And though I know
it will unavoidably return,
I have now lived through its storm once more.
This time,
I carry both the memory of its weight
and the proof
that I can outlast it.